The Game
by FireyFreedom
Summary: He is Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and he will not be ignored. Not by Antonio Salieri. Mozart starts out looking for attention, it evolves into something far more elaborate. Salieri/Mozart
1. Chapter 1

Mozart was a child prodigy, and as such had gained attention at an early age. He was accustomed to it; thrived off it. He was mostly good natured in his search for attention notwithstanding his knowledge of his own greatness, which could lead him into arrogance at time.

Mozart didn't search for attention simply to make himself happy, he also wanted to make others happy, he wanted to use his music to make them feel exactly what he would conjure on notes fitted together into symphonies. To do that, to manipulate their emotions, he needed their attention fixed upon him.

Most people willingly gave Mozart their attention, whether for his music, his antics, or his bed, they would pay him attention and complement—or on the rare occasion criticism and dislike, still attention was attention, and Mozart knew he was brilliant. He was after all, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

But there was an exception to this rule, and it was the ever reticent Antonio Salieri. Mozart was frustrated beyond belief, after all, they were both composers living in the same town, why should he not enjoy Salieri's friendship? The man was nearly as brilliant as Mozart, and surely beneath all that silence Antonio could not be made of stone.

And so Mozart set about attempting to gain Salieri's attentions, first with subtle methods, inviting the Italian to more of his rehearsals, attempting to follow the societal norms more closely when around the other man, but nothing worked. Mozart began to get desperate, and as the cliché goes 'with desperate times come desperate measures.' Mozart's desperate measure would be gossiped about for years to come. They would begin what some referred to simply as 'The Game'


	2. It Begins

"Come on, even the slightest hint?"

"No Mozart."

"Nothing, no reaction at all."

"It is passable, as is all of your music."

Mozart huffs, throwing himself into the nearest chair and eyeing the man dressed neatly in black with annoyance. "Does nothing pass through that shell of yours Salieri?"

"Good day Mozart."

The urge to throw a quill pen hard enough to embed it in the back of the Italian's skull rises up within Mozart, surely that would get a reaction? No, Mozart admits, Salieri would just pull the quill out while calling him a child.

Not that the insult might not be true, the composer mentally acknowledges with a rueful smile, sometimes he felt like a puppy jumping and pawing at Salieri's trousers in a bid for affection.

With nothing left to do, Mozart begins to pack up his things and head back to the Weber household. He'd just have to get creative in his bids for Salieri to at least acknowledge that he wasn't simply 'passable'. Passable? Mozart is sure that Salieri isn't deaf, how could he produce music otherwise, but surely there must be something wrong with the other man's hearing if he found Mozart's music merely 'passable'.

Perhaps their tastes were too different? It was possible, though unlikely to be why the Italian wouldn't give Mozart a true criticism. Mozart stops in his tracks in the middle of the sidewalk. Perhaps if he changed his music, Salieri would have to give him a little more to go on then, surely? But how to find out what the Italian like best?

Salieri was a private man, as Mozart well knew, and he kept his drafts of music silent until they were to be performed. He also had a tendency to be just as tight lipped about all music as he was about Mozart. (A fact which did not redeem his tight lipped-ness to Mozart one bit) So the problem is to find out his true preferences.

"Please sir, have you any change?"

Mozart looks down at the boy, around ten, who is holding a dirty hand out to him, and has a thought. This is not exactly a rare occurrence, Mozart thinks all the time, but this thought is special, this thought will begin the Game.

"I have three florins, but they come with a bit of a job," Mozart sets the first of the three florins in the boy's hand as he kneels down to be on level with him, "Do you have any friends?"

The boy nods, "My gang."

"Perfect, do you know who Antonio Salieri is?"

"Director of the Opera for the court," the boy replies promptly, causing Mozart to raise an eyebrow.

"You're well informed."

The boy shuffles his feet, "What's the job sir?"

"I need to know more about Salieri, what he likes, what he dislikes, especially in regards to music. Can you and your gang do that? I will pay you for it."

The boy grins, "Of course we can."

"Then I'll see you in say a week?"

"How should I find you?"

"I'm staying with the Webers."

Mozart stands to walk away, but the boy calls to him, "I'm Pierre."

"Mozart."

Pierre stands there, gaping, three florins still sitting in his open palm, for a few moments, before curling his fingers around the precious coins and running off, he had news to tell and work to do.

Salieri is, in general, an observant man. Pierre and his little gang of beggars/thieves, are more than talented at wandering the houses of the rich and famous—and helping themselves to whatever they please—and so Salieri fails to notice the rag tag gang of boys that has taken to following him everywhere and observing everything about him. Pierre keeps his boys from stealing, trusting that Mozart will pay them for their work.

The first week he meet with Mozart, Pierre tells Mozart about Salieri's routine—wake up at dawn, write, breakfast, write, get pulled out by Rosenberg, write, dinner, a glass of wine, write. When Mozart asks what type of wine, Pierre rattles off the name and year.

Mozart buys a few bottles of the wine and has Pierre deliver it to Salieri's desk with a rose.

The next week Pierre talks of music, what he and his boys had heard of Salieri's private conversations, what they'd read in his diary and from his unfinished and unpublished works.

Mozart studied the notes he'd taken and begins to transform his own music and has Pierre deliver another rose.

The first rose had appeared with a bottle of his favorite wine, sitting on his desk as if it had every right to be there. Salieri had spent around five minutes just staring before beginning to try to find the giver. When, a week later, the second rose appeared without any sort of gift, he was puzzled. No one had admitted to being the giver.

Other things were changing, subtly around him, Mozart was behaving for one. Oh yes, to all accounts the Austrian was as boisterous and unrestrained as ever in other company, but whenever Salieri was around Mozart behaved to propriety's standards—barely.

And then Mozart gave his next concerto and Salieri nearly ran from the room. From the sound of it Mozart had taken everything he loved about music and mashed it into one rampantly celebratory piece of music. Salieri tried to maintain his usual façade of indifference when Mozart turned to him, boyish smile in place, to ask what he thought.

"Perhaps a little better."

Mozart bows his head in acknowledgment, "I'm glad you found it more to your tastes."

A little sliver of suspicion slid through Salieri's mind, but he dismissed it.

At least until yet another red rose appeared tied to a bag of sugar. The gift just had the impish air of mischief that nearly screamed Mozart.

Instead of coming once a week, the roses became once a day, sometimes on his desk, sometimes left elsewhere including once on his pillow.

Other gifts popped up, always signed with a stylized rose popped up, more of his favorite wine, a set of chocolates left on his podium after rehearsals, it was getting more than a little spooky, and all the signs were pointing to Mozart, whose music continued to feel as though it were written to appeal solely to his tastes.

Pierre wasn't sure why the great Mozart had asked him to spy upon the equally great Salieri, and wouldn't much care past getting paid every week, but Pierre wasn't just a street urchin. Pierre wanted to sing, had since he was a little boy.

So, when he collected Salieri's manuscripts for Mozart, he memorized them, and on the few nights he didn't have stalking duty he'd practice. Sure the other boy's would occasionally give him hell for it, but Pierre wanted Mozart to look upon him as more than a street rat, he wanted Mozart to see a star.

"Mozart, sir?"

The composer looked back at Pierre when the boy uttered those words, sounding unsure for the first time, "Yes?"

"I was wondering—I know you're a busy man and all—" Pierre's confidence failed him and he looked down at the floor.

"It's alright."

"Well, it's just—I'dliketosingsir" Pierre garbled out as fast as he could.

Mozart nodded, used to speaking and listening quickly, "Are you any good?"

"I don't know sir, I think so."

"Well, let's go then."

"Go sir?"

"Yes, the concert hall is empty, might as well put you through a trial run, have you a song to sing?"

"Yes sir," Pierre hurried to keep up with the Austrian who had taken off at a fast trot towards the concert hall.

"Mozart is fine Pierre."

The concert hall is deserted, and is much changed from the few times Pierre and snuck in to spy. He gulps but climbs onto the stage. When he glances back, Mozart is smiling reassuringly at him, sitting at the piano.

"Now, what song is it to be?"

It wasn't perfect, Pierre was too nervous for perfection, but it was good enough to send Mozart leaping from the bench in a frenzy, dancing around and babbling about how he was going to teach Pierre and coach him into one of the finest singers.

Pierre ducks his head, shyer than ever, and thanks the great man.

"Oh no, Pierre, it I who must thank you. You will help me with the final stage, and we shall turn you into a finer performer in the bargain."

Salieri had become convinced that Mozart was behind the roses and the gifts. He didn't know how, but he was bursting to find out why.

Mozart was an enigma at the best of times, infantile, yet brilliant. Privately Salieri admired Mozart's music more than he was willing to admit to anyone, or at least he had before the change, befre Mozart started this ridiculous game.

And if a voice that sounded suspiciously like his older brother whispered 'He did it for you' into Salieri's mind, well no one needed to know.

Mozart's new music was written for Salieri, there wasn't much use denying it. Salieri watched Mozart conduct, thoughts hidden behind dark eyes. He wasn't sure how he felt about the gifts and the music, they were intrusive certainly, and Salieri planned to find out exactly how Mozart was getting them placed in his home and how the other man knew his tastes so well.

Yes, Salieri was going to find out how Mozart was playing this game. And then he was going to end it.


End file.
